Trust Yourself When All Men Doubt You
by DeceasedSoul
Summary: Saved from Azkaban, Draco Malfoy is sent to do community service in Romania with Charlie Weasley. Visits from a man he never expected redeem and heal him, and he finds out how to live again. Draco/Harry. Non-epilogue compliant. Slash


Name: Trust Yourself When All Men Doubt You

Fandom: Harry Potter

Rating: R

Warnings: Slash, mentions of het

Pairings: Draco/Harry, other background couples

A/N: Title is a line from Rudyard Kipling's poem 'If-'

Summary: Saved from Azkaban, Draco Malfoy is sent to do community service in Romania with Charlie Weasley. Visits from a man he never expected redeem and heal him, and he finds out how to live again. Slash Draco/Harry. Non-epilogue compliant

There is little that is more unnerving than hundreds of pairs of eyes staring coolly at you, especially when you recognise some of them. There is little else you can do except rake the tattered shreds of your pride around yourself, stand a little straighter, and imagine yourself a thousand miles away.

Especially when that's where you are going to end up.

The sentence was hardly unexpected. There was no direct proof linking him to any crime other than being incredibly stupid. The one man who could have put him away for life was currently sitting opposite him, twirling his wand between slender fingers and looking at him in pity. That pity weighed more upon his soul than anything could have. He wonders if he'd take Azkaban over that pity but he knows he is lying to himself. Since Harry Potter refused to testify against him, and even read a short brief statement that he believed Draco Malfoy acted under extreme duress and concern for his family, and even attempted to shield his identity once. He also reminded the court of the extraordinary actions of Narcissa Malfoy. Faced with such a testimonial, the court could do little than bow to the inevitable.

His wand was confiscated and placed under the care of Harry Potter, until such time as he was judged worthy to resume his possession of it. He was issued a Ministry-approved wand of chestnut and Thestral hair, with binding and recording spells upon it to limit his spell usage, and he was ordered to spend a minimum of six months doing community service wherever the court sent him. And since the Gods obviously hated him, he was assigned as general help to one Charlie Weasley in Romania. The news 

almost sent him to his knees, but he stiffened his back and held his head higher and thought fiercely of his family. He had shamed them enough already.

When he was freed into the custody of his mother to spend a final evening with her- Lucius's trial was still to come, he managed to smile at her, despite knowing she would read his torment in his eyes. There was one other person waiting for him outside the door. Harry Potter stood there, his green eyes unreadable, and face smooth and blank. His eyes seemed to try to read everything about Draco, but he said only one thing. "I'll look after your wand for you."

He spent the evening packing, going through his room, weeding out anything he might need. He packed sets of sturdy, work-safe robes, made sure anything of dragon skin was discarded into the unwanted pile, and began packing into his trunk. His mother flitted in and out, talking of inessentials, until she finally handed him a small silver pin of hers. He looked at her curiously, as he took it from her hand. It was dragon-shaped. She tried to smile at him, but he could see the tears blurring in her eyes. "It'll protect you from dragon-fire," she said briefly. "Just dragon-fire mind, so make sure you don't get trampled on." She knelt beside him and folded the clothes by hand. "Look after yourself," she breathed quietly. "Try to Floo call me at least once a week, more if you remember."

He rose before dawn, dressed in the most practical robes he could find, and wearily crumbled some toast and drank some tea, smiling at the house-elf who served them. "Thanks Cobby," he managed to say through the lump in his chest. It was gradually sinking in that he wasn't going to see this place for at least six months- more if the court determined that his behaviour was inappropriate, and he had a sinking feeling that whatever he did, they would. His mother and the house-elves would continue on living their lives surrounded by the peace and tranquillity he so ached for, and which would always be denied it seemed now. He'd persuaded his mother to remain in bed- he was secretly afraid for her health, she seemed so very fragile now after the war, as though a breath could blow her over, and if anyone treated her anything less than gently she could shatter. He'd said his farewells, written a letter to his father, and Shrunk his luggage until he could carry it in one hand. As he made ready to enter the Floo, his mother came downstairs in a whiff of floral perfume, and a shroud of shawls.

"I had to say goodbye," she breathed, and her expression was lost. On impulse he fiercely hugged her- something they rarely did as a family, and breathed in the familiar smell of home for one more moment.

"Goodbye," he whispered, and cast a handful of the yellow international powder into the flames. "_preoþie de vrajã_," he said clearly, and remembered to keep his elbows in. It was a sickeningly long journey, and after a while he shut his eyes. This resulted in a nasty tumble out the fireplace at the other end. He pulled his hood up to cover his hair, and looked around him. A short dark man was hurrying towards him.

"Mr Malfoy," he said briskly. "We've been expecting you." His English was excellent, though heavily accented. He strode forwards obviously expecting him to keep up. "This are the international Floo portals. Would you like a cup of tea before we send you on your way?"

From the expectant manner it was asked the obvious answer was yes. "Thank you," murmured Draco politely, "that would be lovely."

He was granted with a beam. "I'm afraid our Ministry is not as big as your English one," said his guide as they wove their way around the gnarled tree trunks that formed part of the roof support- a perfect example of the stated Romanian aim of living if not at one with nature, then at least pretty close by it. He glanced sideways as though seeking an opinion.

"It's great, and the architecture is wonderful" Draco answered, taking his first look at a foreign Ministry. He'd obviously said the right thing because the smile widened impossibly further. At last he was guided into a small room, and a cup of tea was handed to him, and a slice of foreign looking cake.

Understanding the inquiring look the man nodded. "It is _cozonac_," he said helpfully. "Very light, very tasty even for this early in the morning. You have a long day ahead of you. Also my name is Michael Popescu. While you are in Romania I shall be your liaison with England. You must report here every week with mentor Mr Charlie Weasley, and I shall be able to grant you usage of any owls that you may require for messages home."

Overwhelmed Draco merely nodded. "Thanks," he said quietly, and finished the tea and cake quickly. He was led towards a different area marked _Intern. _Taking a handful of the usual green powder he paused for a moment. "Where am I going?"

"Retezat National Park."

"Thanks," he replied, and took a deep breath. "Retezat National Park," he cried out, hoping that the English name would be enough to guide him there. The journey was much shorter this time around, and he flashed past only four fireplaces, before tumbling out into what seemed like the scene of a nightmare. Unlike most Floo places, this was not attached to a building, or even inside one, and he appeared to have been flung out right in the path of a rampaging dragon. A feeling of blinding terror whipped up from inside him, and instinctively he drew his wand, though he was unsure of exactly what use it would be.

Only feet away from him however, the dragon stopped and collapsed, leaving only the heavy scent of sulphur, and grey wisps of smoke, to show that only seconds ago it had been breathing fire. He scrambled up and stared at it bemusedly. What was happening? The second emotion was self-disgust, the familiar wave of it crawling up his throat. He was useless, his first ten seconds and he'd almost been trampled to death, without even so much as a try at a Stunner. He was only given a few seconds to brood though, since a tall man loped up to him.

"Ay up," he was greeted by the man who had a tinge of a Yorkshire accent. "Who are you then?"

Draco drew in his breath and stuck his chin out. "I'm Draco Malfoy," he said baldly. The man looked blank.

"Are you the new trainee?"

"Not as such. I'm here for community service. I'm supposed to be looking for Charlie Weasley."

"Ah he's busy. Singing a _cântec de leagãn _to the hatchling I shouldn't wonder. That's lullaby to you. Don't worry, you'll pick bits of Romanian up as you go along. Also bits of French and German probably. We've got two French blokes here, and a German witch so we're pretty multinational. Though with a name like Malfoy I'm guessing the French parts covered?"

Draco nodded, feeling far out of his depth. He wasn't fooled for a moment by the appearance of joviality, the man's eyes were sharp blue, watchful and intense if not unfriendly. "Yes, I can speak French." They were coming up to a large wooden building now. If he narrowed his eyes he could see the fire-retardant spells glistening all over it. He walked forward, and ducked inside. Hovering a foot off the ground was a hatchling, about fifteen feet long. Kneeling next to it was a man with the distinctive flaming red Weasley hair. Draco stood there waiting for a moment, then spoke. "I think it's waking up," he said quietly.

"Thanks," came the muffled reply. "I'll give it a moment more, then it'll be finished."

Surfacing a moment later was a man about the same height as Draco, though much stockier in build, and more heavily muscled. His eyes were a deep blue, and penetrating. "You're Draco Malfoy right? I'm Charlie Weasley. You can call me Charlie if you want." Draco nodded, and suddenly realised something that he had quite successfully repressed during his fears last night. He had indirectly caused the maiming by a werewolf of this man's brother, and the side he'd been in during the war also killed one of his other brothers. He dragged in a deep breath feeling as though he was going to faint.

The look on Charlie's face sharpened into concern. "Are you all right? You look awful all of a sudden."

Draco nodded. "What can I help with?" he asked quietly. If nothing else three months in Azkaban waiting for trial had taught him the value of being quiet, keeping your head down and doing what you were told, even if Voldemort hadn't dinned those lessons into him sufficiently.

Charlie stared at him. "Nothing at the moment. Come on I'll show you to your bed, and explain a few things about this." As they walked along a beaten track to the array of tents, he started. "We live in tents so we can pack on a moment's notice and move. The magic which we use to treat dragons here is pretty 

intense and the dragons tend to scorch the earth, so every few months we move on to somewhere different.

"Retezat is perfect for our purposes. Hundreds of miles of land designated a natural park, with a huge amount of mountains which are exceptionally adapted to providing shelter for dragons, and a vast amount of wildlife for food. It's one of the reasons the Romanian government allows us such free rein. We keep the wildlife down for them, and they make sure no Muggles get this far. A few might hike around the borders, and sometimes the opposition party attempts to get the land opened up for human usage, but nothing serious has happened so far. Our job here is to care for the dragons, make sure everyone of them is tagged, and tame some of them for use in other jobs." He held the tent flap open for Draco to enter. "It's small," he excused it, "but you're welcome on an evening to join us in the communal room."

Draco threw his Shrunken luggage onto the bed. "Thanks," he responded. "What do we do about showers?"

Charlie grinned. "A definite plus of being a wizard. We have two showers, and a toilet on the other side of the camp. However do bear in mind that there are now eight wizard-folk here now so time is limited. I'll introduce you to them when they return from their sally to the mountains. Someone suggested that one of our regular dragon-visitors might have worms, given that he eats and eats, and yet gains no weight. The lucky ones got to stay and tend to the little one. The lucky ones being me and Robert. I suggest you unpack the essentials, then come along to the building we were just in, and I'll set you some tasks." He excused himself, and left the tent.

Despite it all Charlie's thoughts were quite pitying. '_Poor little bugger,' _he thought to himself. '_Looks as though the stuffing has been knocked out of him.' _Very different from the arrogant little twerp his family had described, and he wondered briefly what Azkaban must have done to him to cause such a drastic personality change. He found himself rather hoping that it wasn't permanent. He might have been a git, but no-one deserved to go through life on their knees, especially not someone only a little bit on the right side of childhood.

Behind him Draco thumped on the bed, and turned to unpack the trunk. He'd already decided to leave most things in, and just extract the necessaries, but he felt himself begin to unwind slightly. This wasn't so bad. He could do six months worth of this, if he just kept his head down and made people ignore him. Six months, and he could crawl back to his house, and never leave again if he didn't want to. Right now he felt that he would have given every Galleon in the world for that if it had been possible. Harry Potter had defeated Voldemort in June, and he'd been in Azkaban until September, so the earliest he would go home was February. His throat lurched and tightened miserably. He'd miss Christmas at home now. Taking a deep breath he forced his feelings down, and trudged his way to the dragon-infirmary. The hatchling was still hovering and Charlie was smearing another layer of thick purple paste onto the torn foreleg. Glancing up, he smiled. "Any good at Potions?" he asked.

"Yeah," he replied quietly. "I'm pretty good," which was the truth after all.

"Terrific," Charlie said. "For some reasons most wizards that come into dragon taming seem to specialise in Charms, Care of Magical Creatures and Herbology, but Potions students are just as welcome."

"I don't have any NEWTs," was the expressionless reply. "But I was good at Potions and Transfiguration." A wince seemed to pass imperceptibly over his features, and he glanced down at the floor, and his scuffed work-boots. He followed Charlie down a carved out hollow in the earth, which served as a makeshift Potions lab, and Charlie pulled out two thick tomes.

"These contain most of the relevant Potions information as relating to dragons. Many of the healing Potions are similar in base to wizarding ones after all, but need to be suitably adjusted for application to dragon physiology. None of the potions will use dragon's blood as a base for example, usually milk of moonstone will be substituted instead. Can you get started on the De-Worming Potion? We're totally out of stock now that the team took the supplies up the mountain." He handed the books over, pointed out the ingredients, and Draco got started.

Potion making calmed him as it always did. It was a precise art, and most people never realised that the emotions you had while you were brewing generally affected the finished product. It was why many wizards chose to make their own potions rather than rely either on apothecaries whose boredom with the process would weaken the final product, or get it specially made and risk a poorly made potion. You had to clear your mind entirely of every emotion including boredom and sink yourself into the process. His Occlumency always came in very handy for brewing, enabling him to lock away his thoughts and feelings and concentrate only on the Potion. As always he followed the procedure Severus had taught him, read the instructions and memorise them before you began. Glancing sideways to read what you were doing could disrupt the process, and distract you from the job. It was three hours later that he came back to himself, and two cauldrons worth of crimson De-Worming Potion sat cooling on the side. He cleaned away the apparatus, and then carefully decanted the cauldrons into the tall glass bottles. A human usually only required a spoonful or a glass of a potion, but a dragon required at least a pint usually even of the most potent stuff.

He ran a hand through his hair ruefully. It felt slightly greasy to the touch, slick from the cauldron fumes. Sighing he washed out the cauldrons and ascended into the sunlight blinking at the sun rays, and wondered if this was how Professor Snape must have felt upon leaving the dungeons. The thought caused too much pain though, and he shied away from it, feeling the familiar ache deep inside.

Reviews welcome. Next chapter will be posted in the next couple of days


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